


These Scars Have Never Been So Visible

by CreativWit



Series: Wit and Haven's Eskel Whump Dump [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anger, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bingo, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskel Has Self-Esteem Issues (The Witcher), Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Gen, Geralt is a Good Brother™, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Lambert is a Good Brother™, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Lambert (The Witcher), Reopening of Scars, Repressed Memories, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, TW: Eskel is tortured, The Writing Corner Bingo, They both love Eskel very much and Eskel loves them back, Torture, facial scarring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativWit/pseuds/CreativWit
Summary: Eskel is taken by mages. A lot of wounds are reopened, and not all are physical. Thankfully, his brothers are there to tend toallof his scars.Prompt 1 for The Writing Corner Bingo Event: "Tending to Wounds"
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: Wit and Haven's Eskel Whump Dump [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108274
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	These Scars Have Never Been So Visible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rose_SK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_SK/gifts).



> Wow. Two updates in one month? And none of them being the WIP I should actually be working on? What happened to Wit? 
> 
> _Yeah, yeah, shut up. I know. I'm working on it._
> 
> As always, this fic is dedicated to the one and only lovely Haven. She's great. Go check her out. She's been participating in The Writing Corner bingo and has already posted two prompts. Go read them.
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you guys enjoy the newest addition to the Eskel Whump Dump!

They started with the nekker bite on his leg. No, they started with the drowner slash on his chest. Or was it the gash from a rock troll on his side?

It started with a scar, and doesn’t that set the theme for the rest of his life?

_It started with a scar._ Yeah, it always does, doesn’t it?

He can’t remember how he got here. It’s been way too long. He’s lost track of the days. It could’ve been a week, maybe a month. They started with a scar - he genuinely doesn’t know which one - and they _opened it._ For a moment, he really thought he was being bitten by a nekker again, or that a drowner had appeared and torn at his chest. But he looks down and sees nothing but an open wound and a sadistic smile on the mage’s face.

“Well! I guess it _does_ work,” the man cackles, flipping the glowing dagger in his hand. Eskel wishes he would catch it wrong in his open palm, or drop it and let gravity stab him in the foot. If his luck was ever that good, he wouldn’t be here right now. 

The mage steps around him, surveying Eskel’s nearly naked body. He’s down to his braies and quite literally nothing else. Even his medallion has been removed, though Eskel’s sure it wouldn’t do him much help here. Despite it all, he misses the comforting weight around his neck. Instead, he has the weight of the dimeritium collar pressing against his windpipe and jugular.

The mage comes closer with the dreaded dagger. The cyan hue of the jagged blade casts a faint blue glow over Eskel’s skin. He raises it over yet another scar, one on his chest from a bruxa, and places the tip right at the top end of the scar. The healed skin starts to sizzle at the touch of the blade.

“This one looks good,” the mage - _Ephraim_ , Eskel recalls vaguely - hums. He lightly drags the blade down, tracing the shape of the scar. 

Eskel bites his cheek and tenses as the skin seemingly snaps open, blood gushing across his chest as the decade-old wound reopens like it has been no more than a day since he’s received it. It burns, like a brand against his skin, a line of fire scorching down his sternum. His mind flashes unwanted memories from years past: a dark night, sharp fangs and claws, wild black hair. He remembers the way her nails tore into his gambeson, leaving a single gash from where her middle finger managed to get all the way through and rip skin. It’s clear as day in the forefront of his mind, the memory of a hunt so common that it should’ve been lost within the memories of a thousand others. But that dagger isn’t something usual, even if it’s something Eskel has never laid eyes on before.

Ephraim leans back and grins at his work. “Hm. That one’s a bit of a bleeder, isn’t it?”

Where Eskel bites back a gasp of pain, he huffs, “I imagine they all would be.”

“True, true,” Ephraim muses, tilting the dagger back and forth lazily. Eskel eyes the weapon in disdain. The blade remains untainted, free of any blood it spilled. It seems so innocent, but that blade has opened so many of Eskel’s old wounds in just a few hours. It’s not innocent; it’s hell.

“You know,” Ephraim continues, moving back down towards Eskel’s legs. Eskel can’t see him quite as well from this position, not when he’s flat on his back on an examination table and with the collar pinning his neck down. “I was once told witcher healing was quite the extraordinary thing, but _this-_ ” Eskel feels the dagger tap against his right calf - “this healed in less than a day!”

Eskel knows which scar he’s referencing. A foglet bite from only last year. Ephraim hadn’t opened that one. No, his partner, Dagan, did. Somehow, Eskel hates Dagan more than Ephraim. The other man is more of a sadistic prick than Ephraim is, and given that Ephraim is the only one still toying with him, it means something.

“Tell me,” Ephraim says, strolling back up to Eskel’s head, “will the rest of your wounds heal just as quickly?”

_No,_ Eskel thinks, but he’s not stupid enough to admit that weakness out loud. Then again, is there any answer that isn’t a bad choice to this question? 

“Isn’t it _y_ _our_ job to find out?” Eskel snarks and immediately regrets it. That is probably the biggest invitation to more pain Eskel has ever granted.

Judging by the widening smile on Ephraim’s face, the mage thought the same. 

“Well, if you’re offering, _pup._ ”

Eskel wants to tear his head off. No one calls him that. There is only one person on the entire Continent who can call him that and get away with it, and that man should be far from this godsforsaken dungeon, resting in Kaer Morhen. Eskel will not let this asshole taint one of the few innocent things left in Eskel’s life.

The door to Eskel’s cell bangs open, capturing both Eskel and Ephraim’s attention. Dagan struts into the room, black robe sweeping on the floor. Eskel withholds a sigh. The amount of dirt and grime the fabric must be collecting is not worth the dramatics. Dagan doesn’t seem to mind at all, eyes focused on Eskel’s body like it’s something worth admiring. The urge to hide himself nearly overwhelms him, but he holds fast, as if he has anywhere to escape to in the first place.

“Dagan!” Ephraim cheers, a wild glint in his eye. “You won’t believe what you have missed!”

Dagan doesn’t even so much as glance at his partner, but the way his head tilts slightly in Ephraim’s direction tells Eskel he’s listening. In a sick way, Dagan almost reminds Eskel of Geralt, with his stoic nature but unique quirks. ~~Maybe it’s why Eskel’s so afraid of him.~~

He wipes all thoughts of Geralt from his mind. It’s no use wishing his brother was here. Geralt doesn’t know where he is. Neither do Lambert or Vesemir. Any of the witchers, really. He’ll have to escape this one on his own.

The probability of that dwindled with every reopened scar.

“The little wolf here has some exceptional healing abilities!” Ephraim chatters, moving with an energy rivaling Jaskier’s. Really, are these the evil counterparts of Eskel’s brother and bard?

“Look!” The dagger presses near Eskel’s foglet scar again. “This one has already healed! And this one-” he points to the nekker bite - “is starting to stitch back together! And _this one-_ ” he taps the bruxa wound - “has stopped bleeding! I _just_ cut this one, too, maybe a minute or two before you walked in! And this one-!”

“Enough,” Dagan rumbles, eyes narrowing at Ephraim. “I get it.” Dagan’s steely grey eyes wander, roaming up and down Eskel’s limbs. A shiver threatens to run down the witcher’s spine. Eskel fights back the urge. He refuses to show his discomfort.

“So,” Dagan starts, locking eyes with Eskel, “you heal much quicker than expected.” The corners of Dagan’s mouth lift slightly. It’s not quite a smile, but it feels more predatory than it has any business being. “To be fair, these wounds do seem fairly shallow.”

Eskel doesn’t tell them if they’re right or wrong. He’s already given one invitation; he doesn’t need to hand them another. Instead, he keeps his gaze locked onto Dagan’s, unflinching and determined. Even if he dies here, he’s not giving them the satisfaction of having broken him.

“I suppose that means we’ll have to find a wound that’s a bit deeper.” Dagan’s smile grows, and so does Eskel’s horror as the mage’s eyes slowly slip from his and locks onto the right side of his face. 

It’s impossible to hide the tremor in his hands.

“Ephraim, the dagger,” Dagan orders, holding out his hand and never tearing his wicked gaze from Eskel’s face.

“With _pleasure,_ ” Ephraim purrs, giving a flourished bow and twirling his wrist as he holds out the weapon. 

Dagan takes it, disregarding his partner’s theatrics, and comes closer to Eskel’s head. He perches on the side of the table, leaning over the trapped witcher. Eskel distracts himself from the fast-approaching dagger by imagining himself knocking out those infuriatingly perfect teeth.

“Let’s see how long it’ll take you to heal from this one,” Dagan whispers. He places the tip of the dagger at the top of his forehead, where the scar greets his hairline. Eskel can do nothing but close his eyes and wait for the memories to resurface.

The drag of the blade is unbearably slow. White-hot pain sears across his face, a stabbing sensation where the dagger first pricks the sensitive scar, then burning as Dagan drags the blade down. The first trail of blood tickles Eskel’s skin, but it doesn’t last long as Eskel’s memory launches him back to decades before.

This memory is so much more vivid than the others, and he distantly wonders if the dagger affects emotional scars, too. He’s standing in the Kaer Morhen courtyard. There’s a young woman in front of him, and Geralt isn’t too far behind her. His attention rests on the woman, though, on her outraged face. He sees the hurt flicker in her eyes. She’s yelling. The words are muted, but he knows what she’s saying.

_“How could you abandon me again? I need you!”_

He feels his lips moving, but no words come out. He doesn’t remember what he said back then; it never mattered. It didn’t stop what came next.

Dagan’s blade twists, following the part of the scar where it splits into two. For a moment, he feels the pain of the dagger’s blade, of the splitting skin, of the fire spreading through his veins, but he doesn’t linger long when he’s thrown back into the memory.

Time must’ve skipped. He recalls a few more words being ~~screamed~~ exchanged, but nothing is said. He is only faced with Geralt’s, _“Eskel, look out!”_ and the sudden terror of not being able to cast Quen as Deidre’s sword swung downwards. The gashes she leaves behind sting, a sharp agony burrowing into his skin so deep that he distantly fears she cut bone. He couldn’t hear his words from before, but he can hear his scream now. It takes him too long to realize that the scream isn’t in his mind.

“Oh, _interesting_ ,” Ephraim giggles from somewhere in the room. “Guess we found a weak spot, Dagan.”

“Not done yet,” Dagan rumbles, and it makes Eskel sick to hear the barely restrained glee in the stoic mage’s voice. He lifts the dagger and traces where the two scars split into three.

Eskel’s vision turns red, likely a side effect from blood seeping into his eyes, but if it’s from the vision or reality, he can’t tell. It might be both. He remembers hands pressing onto his wounds. They burn, pain lacing across the entire right side of his face and stretching to the left. He wants to shove them away, wants to tell them to stop, wants to tell them, _“Please, fucking stop! It hurts!”_ But his hands refuse to cooperate, and his mouth doesn’t seem willing to move.

_“I can help him,”_ another woman says adamantly. Eskel wants to yell. He’s done with mages, done with impossible choices, done with the idea of “helping.” He didn’t ask for this. He never _wanted_ this. 

“Look at how this one bleeds,” Ephraim coos. Eskel distantly hears the mage draw closer, but it’s hard to focus on anything past the agony stretching across his face and the tell-tale heartache in his chest. 

He’s screaming. He knows he is. He wants to stop, wants to clamp his mouth shut and never open it again. But the memory still drifts freely in his mind, even after Dagan finishes tracing the scar. Eskel cracks open his eyes and that _fucking dagger is still clean._

“Well? What do you think, Dagan?” Ephraim asks cheerily, sidling up next to his partner. “Good one?”

“It’ll do,” Dagan answers, but the smile has grown to expose teeth, and Eskel knows Dagan finds this to be so much more pleasurable than he’s letting on.

Eskel can’t even raise his hands to stop the bleeding. His wrists remain pinned to the table by dimeritium cuffs, and so are his ankles. He’s trapped here, forced to bleed out on a dirty table from a wound given decades ago. It’s the most ridiculous and unbelievable situation Eskel has ever found himself in.

His screams have tapered down, leaving behind nothing but ragged gasps of air. Eskel’s body shakes involuntarily as he deals with the burning of his wounds, the infuriating itch of blood running through his skin and hair.

Eskel thinks of a hundred insults and curses to launch at the mages. Some of them, he got from Lambert. Others, he makes up from his own stewing rage. His eyes sting, and he tries to pin it on the blood leaking into them. He refuses to accept the alternative. His mouth can’t move. The scar has opened where it meets the damaged corner of his upper lip. To talk is to invite agony, that much he can recall.

He thinks of a thousand more threats he wants to hurl at them, but even in the midst of pain, his enhanced hearing just barely picks up the sound of a threat much larger than any he could ever come up with. Instead, he does his best to swallow down the pain and give the most shit-eating grin he could muster.

Dagan narrows his eyes suspiciously, while Ephraim scowls.

“Now what do you find so funny?” the eccentric mage demands. Eskel doesn’t need words to respond. The loud bang of the metal door flying off its hinges from a well-placed Aard answers well enough.

Dagan and Ephraim whip around, the dagger still in Dagan's hands. Both look geared for a fight, but neither knows how to prepare for the fury of two wolf witchers. 

Geralt and Lambert storm into the room, knuckles white around the hilts of their silver swords. Eskel can hardly see them through the blood and tears, but he hears the feral growl rumbling from Geralt and the louder litany of curses from Lambert. The younger witcher even gets a few Eskel had been thinking of before. There's a small swell of satisfaction at that, but another gush of blood and throb of pain overcome him and he's forced to shut his eyes against it all. 

The sounds of Geralt and Lambert no doubt slaughtering the mages fades into the background. Presently, all he can truly focus on is the sharp, burning pain against his face, and even then, his mind has other plans.

Deidre’s face torments him. The way her mouth contorted into a sneer, the angry draw of her eyebrows, the trembling of her body as she shook with rage. And he had deserved what she had given him. It’s what he gets from running away from responsibility, from Destiny.

“Eskel!” Lambert shouts, ripping him from thoughts of a time long past but no less haunting.

He wants to look at them, but there’s blood everywhere. It’s seeping into his right eye, down his face, through the gap on his lip, into his ear...it’s everywhere and anywhere. Even if he could pry his eye open past the underlying layer of dried blood clotting over his eyelid, he doesn’t want his brothers to see how red his eye must have turned underneath. Instead, he cracks open his left eye, blearily looking to the side. 

Geralt and Lambert are leaning over him, worry and horror written blatantly across their faces. Geralt has a hand slightly raised, like he wants to touch Eskel’s face but is hesitant to move. Eskel doesn’t acknowledge it. He glances at Lambert. His younger brother is staring with wide eyes, roaming up and down the side of his face frantically.

“Fuck, Esk,” he whispers. “It’s open again. Gods, what did they do?”

Opening his mouth has yet to become an idea he wishes to entertain, so in lieu of answering, Eskel jerks his wrists, trying to draw attention to the cuffs pinning him down. It gets the point across. Geralt and Lambert practically throw themselves at the task, desperate to do _something_ right, something helpful. As soon as his wrists are free, his brothers move to the ones at his ankles. Eskel weakly pushes himself up on his left elbow, using his right hand to gingerly touch his wound.

“Don’t touch it,” Geralt snaps, making his way back to Eskel’s side. He places a hand between Eskel’s shoulder blades and helps him sit up fully. “Your hands are dirty. It’ll get infected.”

Eskel sends him a withering glare as best he can with only one eye. He gestures to the free-flowing rivers of blood cascading down his face and dripping onto his chest.

“You’re not gonna bleed out,” Lambert assures gruffly, coming to Eskel’s other side. He lowers one shoulder for Eskel to hold onto and places a hand on Eskel’s back as well for support as Eskel shakily slides his legs over the side. Geralt moves away from the table, beelining to Eskel’s discarded clothing in the corner.

Eskel lets a disbelieving scoff slip from his mouth, only to wince as the hot air brushes over the gash in his lip. 

“You’re _not_ ,” Lambert insists. “You’ve been through this before. You’ll be fine again.”

Eskel doesn’t mention that they had Sabrina nearby last time. He didn’t exactly have a chance back then to bleed out.

“Triss is waiting on us,” Geralt says, handing Eskel his shirt. “Called for her when we found out you were taken.”

A warmth flickers in Eskel’s chest at that. Trust his brothers to become worried enough to call Triss before they even found him. Then again, he would have done the same thing if either of them had been taken instead.

With some help from Lambert, Eskel manages to put his shirt on without brushing the fabric against his burning wound. He supports himself on Geralt’s shoulder while Lambert assists him with his pants. Eskel can’t be any more aware of how his body shakes. Whether the tremors result from pain or the lingering memories of Deidre, he’s not quite sure. He thinks he’s okay with not knowing.

“Here,” Geralt murmurs, gently slipping Eskel’s medallion over his head. He holds the chain far from the gashes before letting it hang over Eskel’s chest. The familiar weight grounds him.

Eskel squeezes Geralt’s wrist gratefully. He gets only a nod in return.

“Come on,” Geralt urges once Lambert fits Eskel’s boots on. “She’s not far from here.”

Between Geralt and Lambert, Eskel hardly has to bear his own weight. He’s exhausted. The other wounds are healing. Eskel doesn’t think his brothers have really taken stock of those, not when there is a much larger and more pressing injury to deal with. In all fairness, Eskel had forgotten about them, too. They itch and throb on their own, but none of it compares to the severe heat radiating from his facial scars. He desires nothing more than to put a hand to the gashes, to staunch the bleeding, but Geralt already shot that idea down, and Eskel doesn’t think he can take any more pain.

They pass the corpses of Dagan and Ephraim, disemboweled and their throats slit. It’s certainly a dirtier job than Eskel would have done, but no less effective. Characteristic of his younger brothers, in any case. The glowing dagger lays on the floor, disregarded and mere inches from Dagan’s outstretched hand. They need to grab it. They can’t leave it here, not where someone else can easily find it. Triss could also use it, too. Maybe it would help in healing the damage caused.

Eskel shifts his weight towards Lambert and prods Geralt’s shoulder. At the curious look, he points to the dagger, the unspoken order passing between them. Geralt nods, taking the handful of seconds to carefully pick up the dagger and return to Eskel’s side.

“Anything else you need?” Lambert asks. Eskel looks around, then shakes his head. The slight wind of the action pricks at his wounds, leaving stinging pains down his face. He pushes through it.

“Good. Let’s get out of this fucking hell hole.”

~~~~~~~

Triss made quick work of the reopened scars. True to Eskel’s hopes, the dagger helped her. Knowing what kind of magic was used in causing damage is instrumental in healing it, she claimed, or at least, that’s what Eskel surmised. She said a lot more than that.

For the most part, the bleeding has stopped. His face, shoulders, neck, and upper torso are still a bloody mess, but he can’t be bothered to clean himself, not yet. Triss has all but drained herself in healing him; he doesn't expect her to clean him. The main issue lies with the fact that he doesn’t trust himself to hold his own weight, and the washroom is several doors down from his own. He resigns himself to itchy skin and unwanted silence for however long it takes for Geralt or Lambert to return.

From what Eskel can recall, Triss had kicked them out of the room almost immediately after they arrived. Geralt had come in briefly after Triss finished and helped her back to her bedroom without much more than a scrutinizing glance at Eskel. Lambert had disappeared entirely. Eskel isn’t sure what to make of either of them, so he doesn’t try.

Instead, he rests on a soft mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling above him. He ignores the stinging of his wound and the desire to scratch away the dried blood. The bandages covering his face itch as well, especially as they rub against the trapped mess beneath them. Eskel knows Triss was exhausted - and he doesn’t blame her for it - but he would have really appreciated having at least a washcloth nearby to clean himself with.

So he lays there. Silent. Unmoving. He loathes to call it wallowing, but he assumes that would be the correct name. He hates that of all the memories to stick with him, it is the one he wishes he could erase the most. He doubts he ever will, though. A millennium can pass, and Eskel is sure he will never truly forget how it felt to have Deidre mark his biggest mistake on his face, her expression as he abandoned her once more. The phantom pains will never fade. The skin will never repair itself. The memory will forever stick with him, and he can’t say he doesn’t deserve it.

The sound of the door creaking open breaks his musings, but he refuses to turn his head. Truly, there is no point to it, none that he can currently see. Not that he can see much given only one of his eyes is uncovered, but that’s neither here nor there. He hears a sharp intake of breath, but the sound of two slow-beating hearts overcomes the dramatic reaction.

“Well, shit. She couldn’t even clean you afterward?” Lambert jokes, the innuendo hanging in the air but bogged down by the steely edge to his voice.

There’s a soft thump of Geralt smacking Lambert’s shoulder. Geralt then says quietly, “I’ll be back.” Eskel hears him leave the room, yet he never tears his gaze from the ceiling. He resists the urge to sigh. They’ve all been through this song and dance before. He wishes he didn’t have to do it again.

Lambert, however, has no such restraints, heaving a deep breath before approaching Eskel’s bedside. Eskel remembers Lambert pulling up a chair decades ago, a time where their relationship had been too tumultuous to provide anything more than silent companionship. Now, he leans over Eskel, an unimpressed look on his face.

"So," he drawls, "we're doing this shit again."

His wounds aren't completely healed. They're more scabbed over than anything, and it still hurts to talk, but Eskel finds it worth the pain to say, "Fuck off."

"Mm. No. Don't think so."

Eskel figures his glare isn't threatening with only one eye, but he has an inkling that Lambert wouldn't have been intimidated if he'd had both eyes, anyway. "Not in the mood."

"You weren't in the mood last time this happened, either."

Eskel huffs. "What would you know? You were never really around."

Lambert actually flinches at that, looking more contrite than Eskel expected. "Yeah," he mutters, averting his eyes slightly and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I wasn't exactly...the supportive type." Lambert drops his hand and replaces his attention with a firmer glare. "But I'm here now. And me combined with pretty boy means less moping for you."

"Not moping," Eskel growls, ignoring how hypocritical he sounds.

As if Lambert could read his mind, the younger witcher raises an unamused eyebrow. "Oh? Not moping? So what do we call staring at the ceiling and not paying attention to anyone?"

"Coping."

Lambert has the audacity to laugh at that. "Right, yeah, _coping._ See, last time I did that, you burst into my room and forced me into a hug until I told you what was wrong, so excuse me if I'm taking your words with a grain of salt there, Esk."

"Different," Eskel grits out. The more he talks, the more the cut on his lip starts to burn and itch. Can't Lambert leave him to his misery?

"Not different. You're just self-flagellating."

"Big words."

"Don't be an ass."

Their positions feel oddly reversed, but Eskel can't bring himself to linger on that. He's saved from thinking too much when Geralt opens the door. This time, Eskel does turn his head, more out of the urge to prove Lambert wrong than curiosity. In Geralt's hands are a couple of washcloths and a large bowl of water. Had this been at any other time, Eskel would have kissed him. Now, all he can do is sigh quietly and turn back to the ceiling.

"Moping," Lambert sings.

"Fuck off," Eskel snaps.

Geralt snorts at the exchange. Eskel hears the clatter of the bowl being set down and some rustling as Geralt moves a table closer to Eskel's bedside. "How are you feeling?' he asks as he grabs the washcloth and sits in Eskel's bedside chair.

"Really hope that's a trick question," Eskel mumbles. There's soft splashing as Geralt wets the washcloths. Eskel braces for cold water on his skin. He's pleasantly surprised when it's warmer water instead.

Geralt gently swipes at the dried blood on his torso first. "It's not," he answers, scrubbing a little intensely at a stubborn patch. "I mean it."

Anger starts to well in his chest. "How do you _think_ I feel?"

"Don't know. It's why I'm asking you."

_The fucking audacity..._

Eskel turns his head to glare at his brothers. Lambert has drawn up a chair as well, plopping next to Geralt. They both respond with blank stares. Geralt pulls back the washcloth, waiting patiently for Eskel's answer.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?"

"No," Lambert chirps. "Now answer the question."

Eskel lets out a hysterical breath, aware of his hands shaking. "I just got my face sliced open. _Again_. How the fuck would anyone feel after that?" he asks, voice dangerously low.

"We don't know," Geralt repeats, absentmindedly handing Lambert the spare, wet washcloth. Lambert wrings it out on the floor as Geralt continues, "So why don't you tell us?"

Eskel wants to explode. He wants to yell, scream, throw something. Hell, he thinks he wants to cry, too. If he could punch his brothers right now, he thinks he would, but deep down, he knows he wouldn't. Deep down, he knows he's been down this road before. It's familiar to him, these words. These questions, they've been asked. And Eskel has answered them before. Perhaps it's a blessing that the answers are still the same. It's easy to rehearse them, to repeat them, to play the part he remembers so well. But it's also a curse. He wishes he doesn't feel the same way now as he did back then. It means he hasn't changed, he hasn't moved on. It means he's still stuck in the same downward spiral as he was decades ago, and that must say something about him as a person.

So he sighs, a resigned and tired sound, and turns back to the ceiling. It's easier to look at something that doesn't quite look back. A stone ceiling doesn't judge; it only shows cracks that may or may not serve as a mirror to his own resolve.

The fight drains out of him. "I hate it."

"Hate what?" Geralt prods. 

The feeling of a warm washcloth is passing over his chest again, gently scraping off the remnants of blood from his skin. Another one starts pressing carefully on his neck. Eskel closes his eye and pushes down the instinctual panic. He's safe here. He knows this. Geralt and Lambert won't hurt him. They would never. Would they?

"I shouldn't feel now as I did back then."

Lambert scoffs. "Why not?"

"I should have moved on by now."

"Maybe," Geralt muses, "or maybe you haven't given yourself time to move on."

"What's that supposed to mean? It's been years, Geralt."

"So? It could be centuries later, but if you haven't given yourself time to heal, it will always hurt this bad."

Eskel…doesn't quite know what to do with that. He would like to think he understands what Geralt is hinting at, but he can't figure out how else he's supposed to move on. "And how, exactly, have I not been healing?"

"You still hide from your own damn scars, dipshit," Lambert snorts. "You can't even look at them. You hate them. You see them more as a failure than as a symbol of surviving."

Eskel huffs. "It's not an honorable thing."

"And that's your problem. It doesn't have to be 'honorable,' you self-righteous prick," Lambert retorts. He tilts Eskel's head towards him slightly, keeping one hand on his chin to hold him still as he wipes down the sides of his jaw. "Your scars don't have to mean something heroic, but it doesn't mean it's a failure, either. It just means that something bad happened to you, and you lived through it."

Geralt makes a startled noise. "Lots of praise from you, Lamb. I'm impressed."

"Shut the fuck up."

Eskel opens his eye, meeting Lambert's as he seeks to end the ensuing argument. Lambert looks back at him, a little uncomfortable with the resulting eye contact, but he holds Eskel's gaze.

"And so what? I'm supposed to like them?" Eskel pushes, narrowing his one eye. 

Lambert rolls his. "No. You don't have to like them or worship them or have Jask write poetry about them. You just need to accept the fact that they're there. They're not going away."

Eskel falls quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice softens. "Did you know Triss once told me that if we knew her before and she had been there instead of Sabrina, I probably wouldn't have had these scars at all?"

"And would the memories have gone away?" Geralt retorts, keeping his attention fixed on cleaning. "Would you have just...forgotten everything?"

"I..." Eskel pauses, staring distantly behind Lambert as he mulls over the question. Would he have just forgotten if he hadn't gotten the scars? The image of Deidre's stricken face pops forward in his mind. He recalls the tears brewing in her eyes, the scent of despair and hopelessness flooding between them, the tremors wracking her body. No, he doesn't think he would have. 

"The scars aren't the problem, Esk," Geralt murmurs, finally seeking eye contact. Once he gets it, his gaze softens and he says, "It's deeper than that."

Lambert hums, putting down his washcloth and gently taking the end of Eskel's bandages. "These are dirty," he declares, starting to expose Eskel's wound. "Merigold did a shit job of cleaning you."

"She didn't," Eskel mutters. "She was tired."

"And, what, she couldn't clean you while she worked?"

"Didn't need to."

"Right. Magical bullshit."

Eskel manages a short laugh at that, but then the bandages are off, and Eskel has to remember to keep his right eye shut. Lambert frowns at that, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Why are you keeping your eye closed?"

"Blood got in it."

"That's more of a reason for it to be open. So I can clean it."

"...It's also glued shut from the blood."

"Oh, what the fuck," Lambert growls, twisting to grab the washcloth and carefully mopping away the dried blood from around Eskel's eye. He's attentive, ensuring he doesn't catch the scabbing of the gashes. 

Geralt hums. "You know, they do look better than when Sabrina did it. They're healing faster."

"Triss said having the dagger helped," Eskel responds, closing the other eyes as Lambert wipes his face. "Something about it not being truly open."

He hears Lambert make an inquisitive noise at that. "What did the dagger even do? It was all glowy."

"They didn't actually cut open the scars. Any of them, really. They traced them, and the skin snapped open like it did when I first got it. They also, uh...brought forth the complete memories of how I got the injury."

The ministrations from both men stop. Silence envelops the three brothers.

"You're telling me," Lambert starts slowly, "that it made you remember exactly what happened for each scar, even the ones you forgot?"

"Yeah."

Lambert whistles. "Well, shit. No wonder your mind is so fucked."

There's a loud slap, and Eskel doesn't need to open his eyes to know that Geralt smacked the back of Lambert's head. The ensuing "Ow!" helps, too.

"Triss has the dagger now," Geralt assures. "She'll figure out what to do with it."

Eskel doesn't respond, but knowing the dagger is in safer hands and not laying discarded in a bloody cell quells some uneasy nerve in him. Or maybe it's the relief of his skin finally being clean. Under Geralt and Lambert's attention, most of the dried blood is gone, save for the bits Lambert is working off his face, leaving his skin feeling lighter and looser. He gives a contented sigh at the treatment.

Lambert snickers. "Feeling better?"

Truthfully, he kind of does. Not just physically, either. The irritation from his skin has seemingly fled, leaving behind a blessed sensation of _nothing_ and a mild burn from his wounds. The burn is tolerable enough. He can handle that. It was the itching that was starting to drive him insane.

"Much," he whispers. He opens his left eye, keeping his right eye closed while Lambert works away at the mess. "Thank you."

Geralt hums in response, dropping the washcloth onto the table and making his way to Triss' workbench in the corner of the room. Lambert keeps his attention solely on Eskel's wounds, but he doesn't stop wiping at the blood and the small uptick in the corner of his mouth betrays his nonchalance.

"There," Lambert says, stepping back from Eskel's side and admiring his work. "All done." 

Eskel dares to open his other eye. Immediately, a well of tears springs up and floods down his cheek before he can stop them. Lambert's eyebrows shoot up, and he steps forward to wipe away the stream. A light red color taints the already stained white washcloth.

"Well, that's one way to clean the blood in your eye," he jokes, a playful smirk on his face.

Eskel laughs softly. "Whatever. Now wrap it back up again."

"So demanding," Lambert grumbles, making _tsk-tsk_ sounds and shaking his head in faux disappointment.

Geralt rolls his eyes, returning to Eskel's side with a small pot in hand. "Hurting?" he asks, jerking his chin to gesture at Eskel's face.

"Stings a little," Eskel admits, shrugging one shoulder. For once, he actually means it. The incessant white-hot pain of his scars has dwindled into nothing more than a slight burn and tolerable soreness.

Geralt says nothing else, but he opens the pot, dips in a couple of fingers, and presents a dollop of clear salve. "Close your eye again."

Eskel obeys and lets Geralt smear the numbing salve over his aching wounds. His brother's touch remains light, enough so that Eskel can barely feel him. The salve cools the burning of the gashes. It takes no more than a few seconds for the numbness to settle in its wake. By the time Geralt finishes, Eskel can no longer feel the large slashes in his face.

"Better?" Geralt asks, wiping his fingers on one of the used cloths.

"Mm. Yeah," Eskel murmurs. He doesn't think he should open his eye again, not with the slave sitting over it. He glances over at his brothers. Geralt is returning the pot to its original place, and Lambert has approached Eskel's bed once more, bandages in hand. The youngest looks over at him, a wary frown starting to cross his lips.

"Really, though," Lambert sighs quietly, "are you okay?"

Eskel breathes deeply through his nose. "I'm just...tired."

Lambert raises an eyebrow, starting to unravel the bandage roll. He perches himself on the edge of the bed, carefully layering the bandages over Eskel's face. "Physically or...?"

"A little of both?" Eskel chuckles, but the sound falls flat. 

Geralt sits in the chair next to Lambert. He visibly chews on his cheek, drops his eyes to the pillow beneath Eskel's head, and quietly asks, "Do you, uh...wanna talk about it?"

Eskel has to bite back a laugh. Geralt means well, but it's sometimes fun to watch his brother squirm when talking about feelings. Eskel decides to take pity on him. "I think...I think I need to learn how to let things go."

"Oh, you _think?"_ Lambert drawls, tying off the last of the bandages. He sets the roll aside and plops himself in the chair behind him, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You've only been harboring a problem that happened years ago."

Eskel chooses to ignore that. "I wish it wasn't so hard to."

For a moment, Geralt hesitates, eyeing Eskel's hand, but then he slips his own into Eskel's and says, "You, of all people, know how hard it was for me after Blaviken." He picks up his gaze from Eskel's hand to his face. "You, of all people, should know that you're not alone."

There is not a lump in Eskel's throat. There is _not._ Eskel blinks his only open eye, the other hidden beneath the coverings again. "I, uh...thanks."

"That wasn't-" Lambert cuts himself off, running an exasperated hand down his face. "What the dumb fucking snowman here is _trying_ to say," he starts, ignoring Geralt's warning growl, "is that moving on doesn't have to be a solo thing. Given that _you_ are the person who taught us that, we would think you would have come to us when you needed help."

"I'm...sorry?"

Lambert throws his hands up in frustration. "It's not about being sorry! It's not about, I don't know, being honorable, or loving your scars. It's not about being proud of a moment you're ashamed of. It's about accepting it and _moving on_. We can live for centuries, Eskel! Why would you waste all of that time on something that was so long ago, _someone_ who isn't even alive anymore?"

Eskel tries not to flinch at that. He's not sure if he succeeds. The tightening of Geralt's hand in his tells him he doesn't.

Lambert keeps going, glaring at Eskel and gesturing wildly. "All we're asking you to do is to just forgive yourself! We're not even upset at what you did. We never were! The only people who were actually mad about it all were you and Deidre, and don't even get me started on that bitch." Lambert's voice drops to a growl, a look of pure disdain crossing his face.

Geralt and Eskel exchange surprised glances before turning to Lambert, wide-eyed.

"Are _you_ okay?" Geralt asks, blinking owlishly at their younger brother.

Lambert bristles at that, collapsing back into his seat and crossing his arms again. "I'm fine," he grumbles.

Eskel chuckles, letting go of Geralt's hand. Geralt lets him, watching with a half-smile as Eskel reaches for Lambert. "Come here, Lamb. Hold your older brother's hand."

"Fuck off!"

Eskel manages a cheeky grin, despite the other half of his mouth being hampered by the bandages. "But I'm going through a hard time. I need your support."

"You're such a fucking brat," Lambert mutters under his breath, but he reaches out one hand and places it in Eskel's. He even squeezes his hand. Eskel doesn't hesitate to squeeze back.

"Thank you," Eskel murmurs, unable to find the words to truly express how grateful he really is. They never had to come save him, clean his wounds, sit here with him, and talk through an uncomfortably emotional moment with him. But they did. That's something Eskel can never truly express his gratitude for.

Lambert squeezes his hand again, and Geralt runs a hand through Eskel's hair.

"Anytime," Geralt murmurs, and Eskel knows he means it.

The scars on his face won't heal, not for another day or so, but maybe, just maybe, there's an invisible one that's starting to stitch back together.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! See you soon with the next prompt!


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